


Yesterday Was Blue

by Piscaria



Category: Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead - Stoppard
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:51:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rosencrantz and Guildenstern figure out some things, and remain clueless about others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yesterday Was Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisismsmercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismsmercy/gifts).



> Thanks to Lynnmonster and Llwyden for the quick beta work. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Most of the dialogue comes directly from Stoppard.

> Yesterday was blue, like smoke.  
> \-- Guildenstern

 **\- Blackout -**

"Rosen--?" he starts and then, plaintively, "Guil--?"

His voice echoes into the darkness, then even the echo fades. The darkness breathes around him, heavy as a drawn curtain. A rustle of fabric. The whisper of breath, besides his own. Then the clap of a single pair of hands.

A circle of light appears from the darkness, illuminating the Player who stands applauding. Each sardonic clap of his hands sounds like a musket shot in the stillness and silence around them.

"Not bad," the Player says. "Not bad at all . . . for amateurs."

The light spreads out like ripples in a pond, impossibly wide. It catches the edge of his sleeve, and drawn like a moth to the flame, he stumbles from the darkness, dropping to his knees. Momentary blindness.

He gasps, covering his eyes with his left hand. The right, he reaches behind him, straining in the darkness for something . . . he's forgotten what. A clatter from the darkness as something – a coin? – arcs into the light and spins, glinting copper. The Player steps on it, frowning at the floor.

In the darkness, he feels the soft, accidental brush of dry fingers against his own. His hand convulses, clenching, and catches another, palms sliding together and fingers weaving. He tugs, and Rosencrantz (or is it Guildenstern?) stumbles forward to join him. As if he is hallucinating, Rosencrantz is staring at him, then at the Player. He's pale. Their joined hands are trembling.

"We . . . " Rosencrantz starts, looking sick. He touches his own throat, and frowns. "There was . . ."

He squeezes the hand he's holding, but keeps his eyes locked on the Player. "What happened?" he asks.

"The end," the Player supplies grandly. "And now there's nothing to do but start over."

 **\- An Awakening -**

He wakes to darkness, disoriented and shaking. There's a narrow mattress beneath him, straw poking up through the ticking in a way that's familiar, but strange at the same time. He's tucked up against the wall, he realizes as his eyes begin to adjust. He never sleeps on the far side of the bed. He starts to roll over, feeling for the flint striker on the bedside table. But instead, his groping hand encounters warm skin and rumpled clothes.

"What?" he asks, and his companion groans, piteously.

He frowns, taking quick shallow breaths. The man in his bed, for it's a man, indisputably (His hand skims over stubble as he draws back), groans and lifts himself to a sitting position. He leans over, fumbling on the night table. The flint striker scrapes, sound magnified in the quiet night, and then there's the bright flame of a candlewick catching and holding.

The light disappears for a moment as his companion leans over the edge of the bed, blocking the light with his body. The candlelight catches the edges of the glass chimney he lifts from the floor – had it fallen? Amazing it hadn't broken.

For a moment, panic catches in his throat. He doesn't want the lamp to light, irrationally afraid that it will show him the berth of a ship or the cold, stone walls of the Danish castle in his dream. Then the man in his bed settles the chimney over the lamp, illuminating the cramped, messy space of their flat in Wittenburg.

"Rosencrantz?" he asks, catching sight of blue eyes and sleep-mussed hair. Then, shaking his head, offers instead, "Guildenstern?" But that's not right. He frowns, off balance and afraid. His bed partner leans back against the headboard and sighs, apparently unaware of his confusion.

"I just had the most horrible dream," his bed partner muses, staring into the empty space before him as though he's seeing something else there.

The sight of their familiar room is beginning to calm him. They've left it in a state. The whole space is filled with books, of course. They're students, they've nothing but books, stacked on every surface. But they've left a loaf of bread on the table, and a hunk of cheese -- lazy, that. It will bring mice. There's a dark stain on the floor that looks like blood, but is probably red wine, and his companion --

"You're in my bed," he says, finally putting his finger on whatever was odd in this pulse of morning, the darkness before dawn. It's a relief to have a place for this anger, this odd fluttering in his chest. They are often annoyed with each other. It's inevitable, really, given the small space they share.

His companion lifts a hand to his throat, looking troubled. He's only wearing a shirt and the laces are undone at the neckline, revealing rather a lot of throat. Guildenstern (Is he Guildenstern? Surely he knows his own name?) swallows, and looks away, the uneasy feeling rising in his gut again. What had they done last night?

"Have you ever noticed," his companion says, "just how quickly dreams fade upon waking? You open your eyes with something whole in your head, but in seconds, all you've got left are fragments that don't make sense." He sighs. "By evening, I'll probably forget it completely."

"Rosencrantz!" he snaps, and his companion looks up, startled. Guildenstern (he must be) swallows, some of the strangeness of the morning dissipating. That’s better, he thinks. Direct and unhesitating, no time for confusion. "Why are you in my bed?"

Rosencrantz, if it is Rosencrantz, frowns, looking over the room. His gaze settles finally on the wineskin on the floor, the dark stain spreading out from it. "We were drunk?" he offers, then shrugs, too preoccupied to give the matter more than a passing thought. "Such an odd dream," he sighs, flopping back onto his back. "There was a boat." Guildenstern looks up at him sharply, but he doesn't notice. "And a . . . group of players."

"And Hamlet," he says, a chill in his spine. "Hamlet was in it."

Rosencrantz nods, snuggling down into the pillow. "It's been quiet without Hamlet around," he mumbles sleepily. "Nothing ever happens without him." His voice drifts off, and a moment later, he starts to snore. Guildenstern stares at him, then catches his shoulder and shakes him.

"Something's wrong."

"It's not even dawn yet," Rosencrantz mumbles.

"We shared a dream!" Guildenstern protests. His heart pounds wildly in his chest now, seeking escape, and he takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly. Calm. He has to stay calm, and think about this logically. "Syllogism," he announces, and Rosencrantz groans.

"Can't you even wait until sunrise?"

Guildenstern ignores him, carrying on. "One, two men cannot share a dream. Two, last night, you and I dreamed the same improbable sequence of events. Three, therefore it was not a dream."

"Or we're not two men," says Rosencrantz, yawning. He rolls onto his side bringing the covers with him, as clear a plea as anything for Guildenstern to be quiet and go back to sleep. But Guildenstern stares at him.

"Why did you say that?"

Rosencrantz groans, and pulled the pillow over his head. Guildenstern shakes his shoulder.

"What made you say that?" he repeats more loudly, a faint note of panic rising in his voice.

"Say what?" Rosencrantz asks irritably.

"You said that we were not two men!"

"Oh. I suppose I did." Rosencrantz flops onto his back, yawning. "Just a passing fancy," he said. "For a moment when I woke up, you see, I couldn't quite tell which of us was which."

"That's ridiculous," he says. The words are sharper than he means him to be, but not quite sharp enough to cut through the mild edge of panic rising up again.

Rosencrantz nods, yawning, and rolls back onto his side. Within a moment, he's asleep again. Guildenstern frowns, and lies back against the pillow. As he lies there, deliberating, Rosencrantz scoots closer, his back a warm line along Guildenstern's side. There's something comforting about the steady weight of him, and Guildenstern finds himself beginning to relax, despite himself. Sleep, he decides, might be the best idea. In the morning, they will wake and be embarrassed to have spent the night in such close proximity. In the morning, this strangeness will be gone.

He has barely closed his eyes when the banging on the shutters starts.

"Rosencrantz! Guildenstern!"

 **\- The Point of Decadence -**

"What can you do for this?" Rosencrantz asks, flipping forward a single coin.

Guildenstern pinches the bridge of his nose, and the Player turns away from him, hesitating. For a moment, the world around them stills. It seems they’re at a turning point, of sorts, a footnote in the script of their life. Visibly irritated by their argument, the Player looks ready to turn and leave, the coin be damned. But the Tragedians inch forward, naked hunger in their eyes. In a decisive moment, the Player leans forward and snatches up the coin, his canny eyes fixed on Rosencrantz. The Player snaps his fingers, and one of the Tragedians hurries forward.

"Observe," the Player says.

Stepping forward behind Alfred, the Tragedian wraps his arms around him from behind. He reaches for the laces of the boy's shirt, unlacing them just far enough for the shirt to slide down, revealing pale shoulders. The fabric bunches above the bodice Alfred is wearing in a remarkable illusion of breasts. Nibbling his way down the boy's throat, the Tragedian glances up over the curve of Alfred's shoulder to smile suggestively. He trails a hand up Alfred's leg, drawing the skirt higher, and Guildenstern catches a long line of pale thigh before he swallows, turning away. His gaze falls on Rosencrantz, who is breathing hard, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watches the tableau play out before him.

Alfred sighs in loud falsetto, and the Tragedian groans throatily. Intrigued despite himself, Guildenstern risks a glance at the make-shift stage. The two are kneeling on the bench now, Alfred's back tight against the Tragedian's chest. The boy's legs are open, skirt hitched high around his thighs, and his head has fallen back against the Tragedian's shoulder, the dark curls of his wig spilling down. Alfred is trembling in the older man's arms, and through the soft folds of his skirt, Guildenstern makes out something that might be the Tragedian's hand, might be Alfred's erection.

He wants to look away, but can't. Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't look at anything but the boy shuddering and gasping in the Tragedian's arms, the rhythmic movements beneath the skirt. Only when the curtain falls, hiding them from view, does he spin away, his gaze falling on Rosencrantz, which is not much better.

Rosencrantz is a mess, eyes wide and glassy with lust, erection clearly straining beneath his breeches. Guildenstern swallows, uncomfortably aware of his own tight breeches. The Player clears his throat, drawing their attention.

"That," the Player announces, "is merely a preview. With one more coin, you can see the show through to its completion, only a handful more will let you participate, if you will."

Rosencrantz is fumbling for his coin purse, and Guildenstern stops him with a hand on his wrist. Their eyes meet, and Guildenstern shudders at the heat in his friend's gaze.

"Rosencrantz," he says softly, a warning.

"I'm not usually the kind of man who," Rosencrantz starts, the color high in his cheeks. He won't meet Guildenstern's eyes, is staring at the ground between them. His lip is red and swollen, where he's been worrying it.

Guildenstern squeezes the wrist in his grip, leaning forward until their foreheads rest together. "We have to be strong," he says. “This . . . Whatever we are, it doesn’t have to be perverse. We have to hold ourselves to the higher course, refuse to get dragged along with the dark and muddy undercurrents. Do you hear me?”

Rosencrantz shudders, then sighs piteously and nods.

 **\- A Game of Questions -**

"It's all heading to a dead stop!" Rosencrantz cries, his voice going high and brittle with panic.

"There," Guildenstern soothes, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and squeezing him close. "We'll soon be home and dry . . . and _high_ and dry." Rosencrantz leans his head against Guildenstern's shoulder, dark hair tickling. Guildenstern swallows, uncomfortably aware of Rosencrantz's warmth again him. Unwinding himself from the half-embrace, he says rapidly, "Has it ever happened to you that all of a sudden and for no reason at all, you haven’t the faintest idea how to spell the word – "wife" – or "house" – because when you write it down you just can't remember ever having seen those letters in that order before . . . ?"

Rosencrantz is staring at him. Beneath the panic there is an undercurrent of knowledge in his eyes that doesn't sit well at all with Guildenstern.

"I remember –" Rosencrantz starts, softly.

"Yes?"

"I remember _you_ ," he looks up at him, cheeks coloring faintly. "I don't think we were drunk that night."

Guildenstern steps back, turning away. "Is this really the time?"

A hand falls lightly on his back, between his shoulder blades. "Will there ever be a better one?" Rosencrantz asks.

"Do you remember anything before that night?" Guildenstern asks, searching for logic, for reason, for a way out of the inevitable end he feels them spinning towards. "Do you remember Wittenburg?"

Rosencrantz considers it, his face clouding.

"You don’t,” Guildenstern says. “I know because _I_ don’t. So, we woke in the same bed, after a night of dreaming the exact same thing. How do we know it wasn't a momentary anomaly?”

“But I remember . . . “ Rosencrantz starts.

Guildenstern interrupts him, sharply. “You don’t even remember your own name!”

“I remember —” Rosencrantz insists, desperate.

Guildenstern stares at him, hard. “Yes?”

He seems to deflate under the gaze, crumbling in on himself. “I remember when there were no questions,” he finishes weakly.

“There were always questions,” Guildenstern says, with a certainty he doesn’t feel. “To exchange one set for another is no great matter.”

“But they used to have answers!” Rosencrantz protests.

“You’ve forgotten.”

“I _haven’t_ forgotten!” Rosencrantz flares. “How I used to remember my name — and _yours_! There were answers everywhere we looked! We knew each other. ”

“Did we?” Guildenstern shoots back. “We were in the same room. That’s all we know. A man standing on his shadow in the half-lit, half-alive dawn banged on the shutters and called two names. He was just a hat and a cloak levitating in the grey plume of his own breath, but when he called, we came. That much is certain — we came.”

"Then what are we to each other?" Rosencrantz asks, sounding shaken and unsure.

Guildenstern frowns. "We live together, obviously. We’re students. Scholars."

“Friends?”

“Probably,” Guildenstern allows.

"We woke up in the same bed," Rosencrantz says, close to panic. “We shared the same dream! We don’t know our names — everybody else mixes us up. For all we know, we are just two halves of the same person!”

"The messenger called for both of us." Guildenstern reminded him. "He used two names. We are two different men."

"Are you sure of that?" Rosencrantz asks.

"Positive."

"Would you bet on it?" Rosencrantz digs in his pouch, emerges with a coin. "Heads, we are one man, tails, we are two." He flips the coin, and Guildenstern can't stop the almost queasy feeling that rises in response to the gold coin arcing through the air.

"It's heads."

He hasn't looked, and Rosencrantz is looking up, frowning. "How did you know?"

"It’s been heads the last ninety-six times.”

Rosencrantz purses his lips. “It was tails that one time.” Rosencrantz lifts his coin, studies the coin, and frowns. "Call it again," he says, steadying the coin against his thumb to flip it again. Guildenstern covers his hand with his own, halting the motion.

“Stop. Put it away."

“Why?”

“Just put it away.”

"There's something . . . "

"Forget it."

"We were in the same bed!" Rosencrantz protests, his voice sounding panicked.

"We were drunk. Or perhaps it was cold. There are a million explanations."

"Do you remember drinking? Do you remember any of it?"

Guildenstern pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to stop the panic from rising up inside him. "If we were . . . what you're suggesting . . . surely we would know."

"Have you ever noticed," Rosencrantz says softly, "how quickly dreams fade upon waking? I’ve almost forgotten ours."

“The problem is, each option is . . . plausible without being instinctive,” Guildenstern looks at the wall, not allowing himself to be swayed by Rosencrantz, by the pleading in his eyes. “All your life you live so close to truth, it becomes a permanent blur in the corner of your eye, and when something nudges it into outline, it is like being ambushed by a grotesque.”

“Well I can tell you, I’m sick to death of not knowing. Why don’t we choose, now, one way or another?”

“We can’t afford to get distracted,” Guildenstern says firmly. “Whatever we were to one another, all of that has preceded us. We are comparatively fortunate; we might have each been left to sift, alone, through the clues to our own history. At least we are presented with alternatives.”

“Well, as for me —”

“But not choice.”

“I want to go home,” Rosencrantz moans, sinking to the floor. He gropes, blindly, inching towards one exit, then the other. “Which way did we come in? I’ve lost my sense of direction.”

“The only beginning is birth, the only end is death,” Guildenstern muses. “If you can’t count on that, what can you count on?”

Still kneeling on the ground, Rosencrantz stares up at him, anguished. The moment holds — Guildenstern could turn away, leave him there, let him pick himself up and dust off his trouser knees, shame-faced and silent. But as before, Rosencrantz’s anguish calls to him, like a flame to a moth. Guildenstern sighs, and goes to him.

Rosencrantz's hands are warm and dry. They curl loosely around Guildenstern’s as he helps him up.

"We don't owe anything to anyone," Rosencrantz pleads, clinging to their connection. He's desperate for comfort, his body listing towards Guildenstern’s. It would be so easy to take him in his arms, to lower his mouth to that plump lip and take it, take him. Guildenstern squeezes his hands, then steps away, establishing some distance between them before everything is lost.

"We've been caught up," he says, by way of warning. "Your smallest action sets off another somewhere else, and is set off by it. Keep an eye open, an ear cocked. Tread warily, follow instructions.”

“For how long?”

“Till events have played themselves out,” Guildenstern says firmly.

 **\- Death is a Boat -**

After everything that has happened, Guildenstern supposes that he shouldn’t feel surprised at the vague sense of déjá vu he feels aboard the ship. In the misty dark, the rigging is only a suggestion of shadows. He and Rosencrantz have been sitting in silence for some time now, beneath the gaudy striped umbrella. They’re still close together, as they were when they awoke. Guildenstern can’t quite bring himself to move away.

“Well, shall we stretch our legs?” Rosencrantz asks after awhile.

“I don’t feel like stretching my legs.”

A warm hand travels up his thigh, fingertips resting an inch or so from his crotch. “I could stretch it for you,” Rosencrantz offers.

Guildenstern exhales shakily. “No,” he says, but his voice sounds weak.

The hand inches higher, cupping the bulge inside his breeches. Guildenstern’s eyes flutter shut, and he rises up into the touch before he can stop himself. Rosencrantz’s hand moves with skillful deliberation, lengthening and shaping him beneath the wool.

“We could stretch each other’s,” Rosencrantz breathes, warm and damp against his ear.

“Someone might come in,” Guildenstern protests. He can’t look away from the pale slide of Rosencrantz’s hand over his lap. His cock is firming, rising to the touch, which feels as inevitable as the deck below their feet, as the promise of England in the distance.

“In where?” Rosencrantz teases, his hand slipping inside the breeches. His palm is cool, damp with sea spray. Guildenstern hisses at the touch, rocking up into it.

“Out . . . Out here,” he corrects, squirming on the hard deck. Rosencrantz is driving him mad, fondling, and squeezing, and groping him to within an inch of his life, but never quite settling into a rhythm.

“In out here?” Rosencrantz asks, his eyes wide and innocent. He’s sliding Guildenstern’s breeches down, and Guildenstern lifts his hips, helps him peel the fabric away from his erection. The shock of the cool sea air against his hot skin is surprisingly erotic.

“On deck,” Guildenstern murmurs, unable to tear his eyes away as Rosencrantz shucks off his own breeches. His erection springs ruddy and huge from the wool, and Guildenstern groans as he fits the two of them together, his fist wrapping around them both.

From there it’s fast and desperate, all hushed groans and frantic touches, rocking with the boat beneath them. Rosencrantz comes with a shuddering moan, and Guildenstern follows moments later, hiding his flaming face in Rosencrantz’s shoulder.

They fall apart a little dizzily, sneaking glances at each other as they tuck themselves away.

Rosencrantz laughs breathlessly, pounding the deck beneath his fist. “Nice bit of planking, that!”

“Yes, I’m very fond of boats myself,” Guildenstern says, running a hand through Rosencrantz’s sweaty hair. “I like the way they’re — contained. You don’t have to worry about which way to go, or whether to go at all — the question doesn’t arise, because you’re on a _boat_ , aren’t you? I think I’ll spend most of my life on boats.”

“Very healthy,” Rosencrantz agrees.

Guildenstern kisses the top of Rosencrantz’s head, and sighs, snuggling him close. “One is free on a boat,” he murmurs. “For a time. Relatively.”

And maybe it would have been okay if they hadn’t found the letter.

 **\- We'll Know Better Next Time -**

"We shouldn't have gotten on the boat," Rosencrantz says, as the letter falls from his hands. "That's . . . that's always been our mistake."

"It may not be irreparable."

"If we die, will we even know it?" He's fumbling for the coin, sick, and queasy, and closer to panic than Guildenstern has ever seen him. "Heads we're dead, tails we're still alive."

"Rosencrantz." He holds the coin in his hand, not listening. His eyes are brimming with tears. "Guildenstern," he tries again, and that, at least, gets a response. With a sigh, he steps closer, folds his hand over the other man's. "Don't," he whispers.

 **\- An Awakening -**

He wakes to darkness, and Rosencrantz in his arms. Rosencrantz draws in a shuddering breath. Guildenstern's heart is pounding like a drum. He reaches closer, pulls the other man to his chest.

Rosencrantz is struggling to a sitting position, touching his own throat. “We -- “ he starts, and trails off, looking sick.

Guildenstern squeezes him close. "We're alive," he says like a promise.

"How do we know?"

They stare at each other for a long moment, identical panic in their eyes. Then he steps closer and kisses Rosencrantz.

"We're alive," he murmurs against Rosencrantz's mouth. "We're alive," into the cup of his ear. "We're alive," into the hollow of his throat. Rosencrantz is trembling his arms, unresponsive and scared. But when Guildenstern returns to his mouth, he opens beneath him, yielding to the kiss. They’re trembling in each other’s arms as they clumsily undress, unwilling to relinquish their hold on each other long enough even to slip out of their clothes. Each clings to the other, the one stable point in a dizzying world.

When the messenger bangs on the window an hour later, neither of them take notice.

 **\- The End -**


End file.
